~ Musings from Boston, Mexico City, and Beyond!

Category Archives: Boston

Yes, it has been a long time since I’ve posted. In fact, it’s been months. A lot has happened since then, particularly lately, so I thought I’d write something of an update post. My last post, “Living in Ecstasy,” about my landlord’s Rolls Royce was meant to have a follow-up post, and perhaps I’ll write that some day. But for now, here’s what I’ve been up to.

In early May, just after being more-or-less dumped by Cupcake Boy, I met a real man (>35 y/o), “Luis,” who I’ve been seeing ever since. On our first date, we hit it off. Without prompting, he announced he doesn’t own a TV, loves NPR, especially Terry Gross’ “Fresh Air,” which he knows from having lived in Phoenix for a few years, and is also doing “A Course in Miracles,” something I’m inching through myself. Though younger than me, Luis is at least within shooting distance. If you use a twelve-gauge, that is. We’ve been dating since we met, exclusively, and things are going well, though we’ve had a few ups and downs, as is normal.

Luis is an architect, a Chilango, though not by birth. When I met him, he was working on a complex public works project. At the end of August, his contract was through, and he decided to come with me to Boston, just to help me celebrate my birthday, get a chance to see the place, and generally hang out. As for me, I needed to return to my native soil to do various errands around the house, pay certain bills, and generally look after the place.

After a few weeks, Luis decided he loved Boston and wanted to find a job there. It’s not a tough sell. We can live together in my house, the city has a ton to offer, and with the collapse of the peso, even a crappy job in the USA pays literally multiples of what he could make in Mexico. And unusually for a Mexican, he claims to love cold weather. Add to that his eligibility for an easy-to-get “TN” visa under NAFTA for qualified professionals such as architects, and it’s something of a no-brainer. He hasn’t found a job yet, but we’ll see what happens. So I’ve basically been in Boston since late August, though still renting my apartment in Roma Sur, CDMX.

Soon enough, the holidays rolled around, time for my annual trip to Northern California to see my parents, siblings, and old friends. Since it was no longer just me, the calculus of the trip, where to stay, and a bunch of other things changed. What to do? I defaulted to my normal first-order decision-making process: procrastination. So we spent a lot of time talking about flights, whether we should fly to SFO then to Mexico City, or go back to Boston. Luis was also starting to waver about the wisdom of working in Boston, so that added yet another element of uncertainty. Meanwhile, airline tickets were rising in price and starting to sell out. Rental car rates also had approximately doubled from last year.

What if we drive? Compared with a trip to Mérida on a variety of Mexican highways and byways, a coast-to-coast drive on US interstates didn’t seem all that challenging. And on a cost basis, it compared very favorably to flying two people and renting a car. On the other hand, it also seemed a smidgen insane. While we would not have to contend with narco-gangs, we faced a much more certain danger: snow. The default Google map directions would have taken us through Kansas City, Denver, then west along Highway 80, through southern Wyoming, then into northern Nevada, before having us cross Donner Pass by Lake Tahoe and then descending into the Sacramento Valley. My initial thought was that this would be doable for a few seemingly-good reasons. It’s still early in the season. In Boston, at least, snow is rare before Christmas. The places along the way get plenty of snow, so they’re prepared to deal with it. I had images of hourly plowing and salt application, with messy, but passable roads.

Our Trusty but Tiny Steed, Parked in New Mexico Snow

As it turns out, all these reasons were pretty harebrained. A friend confirmed that west of Denver, there’re often debilitating blizzards that close the interstates. Some quick internet research confirmed this. I would also have been required to carry chains, something that I don’t own. Nor would they have fit. We decided to drive across country in my 230SLK, something the size of a Miata. As it turns out, every single square inch of trunk space was accounted for, and even then we had to gently force the trunk closed. Nope. I didn’t want to deal with chains. Or snow.

The Sensible Southern Route

So we decided to drive the sensible, southern route. We left the morning of Wednesday the fourteenth, and over the course of a few days, passed through Hartford, Pittsburgh, Columbus, Indianapolis, St. Louis, Oklahoma City, and through the Texas Panhandle. We then spent the night in Shamrock, Texas, about 100 miles east of Amarillo.

Art Deco Gas Station, Shamrock, TX. Photo Courtesy of Luis

From there, we drove west, hoping to pass through Albuquerque. Alas, the Goddess of the Road didn’t like that plan. As we reached Tucumcari, NM around 10:30 AM, we encountered a gate across the interstate. The highway was closed. No one seemed to know anything as to why, or when it might reopen.

Tucumcari, Gateway to Amarillo. Or to Albuquerque. Or maybe to nowhere

Fortunately, it was early in the day, and we had come upon the gate probably less than a half hour after it was closed. So we turned around and went into Tumcumcari, had lunch, and tried to figure out what to do. At lunch, Yolanda, our waitress informed us that there was a 40-car pile-up beyond the gate. Given that the snow had been very light (less than 2″), and that we hadn’t seen a single cop in the entire state, we figured the road could be closed for a long time. We immediately booked a motel.

It turns out that was the smart move. As the day wore on, the town filled with trucks, truckers, trailers, and hapless automobile travelers such as ourselves. Motels sold out, and that evening (with the highway still closed) we found it almost impossible to get out of the Denny’s parking lot due to the enormous trucks everywhere we looked. In fact, it seemed like the entire town was full of big rigs.

The Truck Traffic Jam Within an Hour of Closure

The next morning dawned bitterly cold (-2°F/-19°C), but clear. Luis was happy that I had forced him to pack gloves and a hat. The highway had been reopened, but the traffic remained. But after we had packed and eaten breakfast, the worst of the jam was gone. So we continued on.

As we drove, we saw mangled trucks, crumpled cars, skid marks, and all the signs of past disaster. I was astonished that the authorities had allowed such mayhem to occur. Very little snow had fallen, but if the streets in the city were any gauge, someone was scrimping on salt and plowing. In all of Massachusetts, such a dusting would have hardly caused a fender bender. There, the authorities put down salt before snow even starts to fall, and then follow up every couple of hours as needed. But in New Mexico, laisser faire became a disaster.

Worse for me, while in New Mexico, I learned that my 88 year old stepfather was in the hospital, with a very vague diagnosis. His heart was weak, he wasn’t eating, and had swelling in his legs. Though it wasn’t shocking, the timing was a little surprising. He had sounded fine when I called on his birthday two weeks prior, and my mother had not mentioned anything unusual. His health had certainly been slowly failing for some years though. Tied to an oxygen tank, he suffered a constellation of problems common to some older folks: COPD; blood pressure issues; weak heart; several pacemakers; and the like. Indeed the fact that he had made it to 88 at all was something of a miracle. Suddenly, the need to get to California quickly became my dominant concern, and we pushed it, driving 700 miles or more a day.

After five days on the road, we made it to Redding, CA, where my mother and stepfather live. That was Monday the nineteenth. We hightailed it to the hospital. My stepdad didn’t look good, but he was happy to see me. I finally got to talk to his doctor. The prognosis wasn’t good. He had heart failure, which basically means the heart doesn’t pump enough blood. This leads to edema (swelling) of the legs, weakness, fatigue, and related symptoms. The doctor also said he likely had bladder cancer, definitely had internal bleeding, and the cancer had probably started to migrate to his pancreas. Not good.

Over the following days, various decisions were made. Surgery was out, as stepdad was too weak to survive it. Nor did he want any extreme measures to keep him alive. No fool, he had realized his time was coming, and he had put his affairs in order. After consultation with his own children, we all decided that he should come home, but under hospice care. We would try to make him comfortable, but would not treat him beyond that.

Friday morning, the 23rd, we took delivery of a hospital bed, and various other paraphernalia associated with home care. For lack of any other good place, the bed got set up in the living room. Stepdad came home a few hours later, but wanted to sit in his favorite armchair instead of being in the bed. His son came up from the Bay Area, and neighbors dropped by to visit. He even ate some ice cream, a small victory for us. Things looked like he’d have a few weeks to a couple months at home to slowly die and say good bye. Only days before, the doctor had given him 4-6 weeks of expected remaining life.

But the fates had their own plans. And maybe they were better than ours. Within six hours, stepdad had managed to slip out of his chair and onto the floor a couple of times. It was surprisingly difficult to get him back, as he had no strength of his own. He pulled out his oxygen line a couple times too. By 10:45, Luis and I were watching television with him when I noticed that he was unusually quiet. I went to look at him. His hands were cool. No pulse. No detectable breathing. Six hours after getting home, he was dead.

The next few hours involved various phone calls, a nurse visit to certify a natural death, and then a pair of creepy undertakers an hour later. My mother, who typically falls asleep in front of the TV by 8:00 PM was up until 1:30, utterly exhausted. We too were a little frayed, still recovering from the 5-day drive.

Now we’re all trying to deal with the new reality. I’ve told my mother that I’ll stay here at least six weeks. Beyond that, we’ll have to see what works for everyone. My mother is elderly too, 86, and I question how much sense it makes for her to live alone. For now, though, we are just grieving and recouping our strength. I’m fine, but my mother caught a bad cold and is still recovering. I’m doing my best to pamper her, cooking and cleaning, running errands, etc.

As for what the future holds, we’ll see. For now, we can thank the mysterious forces that conspired to make me drive here, leaving me with a car, flexibility, and an open-ended return.

Saludos and thanks for stopping by.

¡Feliz Año Nuevo!

P.S. If you comment, please keep in mind that my mother reads this blog.

It is a very sad morning in the Gringo Suelto household, which has now grown quiet. Yesterday afternoon, after a brief bout of who-knows-what, my dear cat, Pandora, died at the age of sixteen.

Apparently healthy until last weekend, she began to eat a bit less, and sleep a bit more, and appeared a touch lethargic. I brought her to the vet Wednesday afternoon, where she had blood drawn, and a physical exam which revealed nothing. She had a normal temperature, and pretty normal reflexes. The vet promised we’d have some preliminary test results on Thursday afternoon, and a full report by Friday. At about 4:30 Thursday afternoon, I got a call that she was quite anemic with a couple of other blood metrics outside their normal range.

“But anemia is a symptom, not a disease,” said the vet. And then she presented a long list of possible additional tests we we could run, but little in the way of a diagnosis, or reason for hope. I hung up discouraged and confused. Overnight Pandora had grown much more listless, had refused to eat, and I was hydrating her with a syringe, dribbling water into her mouth, as she refused to even drink. To clarify my thinking, I drew up a flowchart of what the vet had told me about the various tests, implications, and next steps. Sadly, the flowchart seemed to suggest that the likelihood of a treatment or cure was slim. I told the vet I’d call her the next day after consulting with my friend, and ex, “C.”

Alas, this was not to be simple or easy. Friday dawned, and I was scheduled for a colonoscopy which I simply could not put off, having already rescheduled three times, and the doctor threatened that if I did not get the procedure done on Friday morning that I’d have to find another doctor. As I left the house, Pandora was quiet, but seemingly stable and purred when I brushed her.

When I got back home at about 3:00PM, she was still sleeping quietly and I called the vet to discuss next steps. Since I’m so close by, the vet suggested that I bring her in again, and I dashed down to her office. The vet took one look at Pandora, who at this point was completely out of it, couldn’t walk without staggering, and said, “She’s really already gone. If she were my cat, I’d put her down. I don’t think there’s really much of anything we can do for her at this point.”

I started crying, but knew in my heart that it was the end. I called my friend and ex, “C,” with whom I had originally raised Pandora and updated him. Since he works very close by, he came over, and together we bid a tearful goodbye to Pandora as the vet gently eased her into the great beyond.

Afterward, we brought her home and buried her in the garden, next to her brother Jason Walker, who died in 2013.

Is there any more effective way of getting young people to do zany, somewhat dangerous things than to have a local elected official insist that they don’t? That was my thought last week when during a press conference, our mayor, Marty Walsh, (who lives in my ‘hood!) asked people to stop jumping out of windows and into snowbanks.

Doesn’t he just make you want to jump out your own window? This phenomena has come to be known as the “Boston Blizzard Challenge,” something I had been unaware of until Mayor Walsh so kindly put the idea into my head. And with so many young people in town, college students mostly, and so much snow, and so many school cancellations, how could this not have happened? We’ve now had 100 inches of snow fall this winter, and it’s only February 21st. Compare that to the annual average of 44 inches, and with winter only about half over, you can see how the situation is crying out for some hijinks.

And I have to confess, the idea of jumping into a snow bank from the second floor seems like fun. Last weekend, fearing it would otherwise collapse, I climbed onto the roof of my garage to remove snow. From the eve of the garage roof to the surface of the snow was only about three feet, which means there was about five feet of snow on the ground, a truly absurd quantity. (For those worrywarts in my readership, not to fear. I stayed away from the side that could have dropped me onto the cleared, concrete driveway.) After I finished clearing the snow, I jumped from the roof and landed with a satisfying “Splat!” in the fresh snow. Very invigorating.

Of course, I was properly dressed, with long underwear, gloves, a down vest, a down jacket, a hat, boots, etc., for a total of about forty pounds of clothing. But the Boston Blizzard Challenge folks? Mostly they jump in their underwear. Now remember, it has been a rare day over 25°F this winter, with a preponderance of days ten or more degrees colder than that. So you can see that this Boston Blizzard Challenge makes the Ice Bucket Challenge look like mere child’s play.

What follows is a few carefully curated YouTube videos to show the phenomenon. Enjoy!

This guy did a very nice video, in slow motion, and managed to film a very graceful and impressive dive.

Boston Blizzard Challenge, Junior Edition. Style points awarded for having a snow-colored dog who really wants to do this too. Obviously his parents didn’t take Marty Walsh all that seriously either. Or maybe they live in the ‘burbs.

This guy is from Rhode Island, but we’ll make this an equal-opportunity challenge. He did a great video and was the only one who actually jumped with a camera filming.

The first guy in this video has become the icon of the “movement,” probably from the combination of a beautiful flip and because his skin tone contrasts so nicely with the snow.

And who was it? Cyndi Lauper? who said, “Girls just wanna have fun?” Go for it, girls!!!

So there you have it. Levity in the face of adversity. Saludos from the frozen north. And remember. Don’t try this on a Mexican volcano!

It’s true. The city of Boston has become nearly paralyzed with snow. The subway is a disaster, with only a few trains limping along and lots of disgruntled passengers waiting on the platforms. The buses are having a hard time getting through the now-narrowed streets. Public offices are closed. Schools are closed and youth is running riot. And parking, a nightmare at the best of times in this pre-industrial city, is now more valued than life itself.

When He Leaves, A Lawn Chair Will Serve as a Placeholder

Two weeks ago, we opened with “Juno,” AKA the “snowpocalypse” or “snowmageddon.” That charmer dropped just over twenty inches in a bit more than 24 hours (about three or four times a normal storm), and to the delight of schoolchildren throughout the Northeast, set off what was to become a rather astonishing chain of school-closed snow days. Woo hoo!!!

Kids Taking Full Advantage of a Snow Day

Though a lot of snow to receive at once, we dealt with it in a curmudgeonly, New England kind of manner, dutifully snowblowing, shoveling, and melting with salt and other chemicals. The newly-elected governor held press conferences from a bunker in Framingham, where most of what he had to say could be filed under the heading “obvious.” Don’t drive, clear your snow, and watch out for falling ice.

Prior to that storm, winter had so far been fairly benign. Sure, there were cold temps with a few nights close to zero Fahrenheit, a few degrees colder than normal, but nothing that we couldn’t deal with, especially in the dead of night when most of us didn’t have to leave our houses. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one to think that winter was actually kind of tolerable. Cold, yes, but reasonably dry, and thus far with little snow. So against that backdrop, Juno hit. We dealt with it and hoped to move on.

Juno. Full Tilt. That’s a Street Between Us and the Next House

During the week after Juno, the temperatures didn’t break the low 20’s for a high, and the nights were bitterly cold. In fact one morning, we woke to -3°F. Though cold, it hadn’t snowed any more, but then nothing had melted either so most of Juno’s snow just hung around.

The following weekend, we got another twelve inches or so of snow. More snowblowing, shoveling, and general cursing ensued. Because you don’t want to let snow build up (it could melt into an unremovable block of ice), I was out twice a day running my snowblower, clearing my excessively long driveway, my sidewalk, and helping various neighbors with their sidewalks and parking spots.

But this past weekend was the final straw. We got “Marcus,” and Marcus was a sluggard. He didn’t dump snow very energetically, but he basically stayed around and snowed constantly for three days, leaving another eighteen inches or so in his wake. That meant that for him, I basically dragged out my snowblower about six times, once in the morning, and once in the evening for each day it was snowing.

Gringo Suelto’s House — So Far Not Completely Buried

Now it has become a cliché, but we are literally running out of places to put the snow. As you can see from the photos, there’s a small glacier forming at the bottom of my driveway. And most of my neighbors also have their own nascent glaciers. You’re not allowed to throw the snow into the street, and by city ordinance, you must clear your sidewalk within 24 hours of the end of the storm. If you’re smart, you’ll do it several times before it gets too deep. So snow must be piled. And piled. And piled some more. We are relatively lucky in my neighborhood. Most of the houses are single-family, and virtually all have some kind of yard or garden where snow can be hurled. So we have some space, unlike the rest of the city where houses start at the sidewalk, and mostly don’t have garages.

The problem? After a snowbank gets to a certain height, it becomes a lot of work to throw the snow up so high. And even if you can hurl a shovelful of snow up 6-8 feet into the air, much of it will simply roll off the sides and back onto the sidewalk. This is nothing if not a Sisyphean task.

Back Yard – With Rain, but Before Snow

But we are truly running out of space. My back yard is now pretty full.

Back Yard After. It’s getting harder to reach the top of the snow.

And neighbors are desperate to guard their freshly shoveled parking spots. When people leave, they put something into the space to save it. Lawn chairs are mostly what you see here, but garbage cans and other objects are used too. I’ve often thought it would be funny to get a mannequin in a bikini, and set her up in a cleared space in front of my house, on a chaise lounge, with a side table and some martini glasses to save the parking spot, all under a nice, bright beach umbrella. But so far that’s an idle fantasy that I think about when clearing snow, but not much the rest of the time.

I’ve *NEVER* Seen Anyone Use a Candlestick to Save a Spot Before

For clearing snow, nothing beats a hefty snowblower. You don’t want a lightweight model because it’s going to disappoint you when you need it most. When I bought my snowblower years ago, I realized that I would need something serious. Something that could handle the big storms that Mother Nature occasionally throws our way. So I bought an 8 hp, 36″ wide monster that could chew threw anything we’d ever get. This baby would be at home in Alaska. He always starts up with one vigorous pull of the starter cord, and even has a plug-in electric starter if you aren’t up to jerking a cord. He’s got “fingertip” steering controls that make him easy to direct. And he’s got 6 forward speeds and three reverse speeds. He’s even got a headlight, which is surprisingly handy. I can’t complain about my snowblower; he rocks, easily blasting through the toughest mountain of packed snow cutting a path for civilization to follow.

Sidewalk Snow Corridor. Street is Over the Glacier to the Left.

But even with the best power equipment, things just aren’t that easy. To get ready to blow snow, I have to suit up. I put on a down vest, then ear plugs as the snowblower is as noisy as it is powerful. After that, I put on a red, down-filled hat/hood that covers my neck and throat and, and has a lace system that lets me shrink down the face opening to basically just expose my eyes and nose. Then I put on a parka which has a collar that zips up to cover the base of the hood. Of course long underwear is part of the gig. Finally, I pull on big snow boots, and then a set of fleece gloves, and then a set of opera-length, very heavy-duty rubber gloves to keep the fleece gloves from getting wet. Thusly equipped, I go out to do battle with Mother Nature.

Theoretically, with eight horsepower and “fingertip steering” at my command, I should be able to easily overcome Mother Nature. Not so fast, Gringo. Mother Nature has a few tricks up her sleeve. First, and I can’t complain about this because the opposite is *FAR* worse, the snow is very dry and powdery (due to the sub-25° temps). The machine sucks it up and blows it 20 feet into the air in whatever direction I want. The problem? In one word: wind. Mother Nature’s favorite thing is to blow all that snow right back into my face. OK. I’ll change directions and blow the snow the other way. Hahahaha… Think again, Gringo. Mother Nature can change the direction of the wind faster than I can turn around the snowblower. So I just keep my head down, look at the ground, and plod grimly forward. Eventually, I do win, but at a price of coming back in the house covered with snow, and definitely freezing. But this kind of experience is character-building, right?

Finally, today we got a break. It stopped snowing early this morning and the sun even came out. The high was 32.5°, maybe even 33° and with the sun, the snow began to melt, at least on the road and on the driveway. Though I don’t like to use rock salt, I relented and put it on my driveway and now, for the first time in a couple of weeks, I can actually see the surface again.

But we’re not out of the woods. Supposedly another storm is due for Thursday, and then another one is right behind it.

Which begs the rather obvious question: why am I not in Mexico?

Please. Don’t ask. I’m not sure I have a good answer. Meanwhile I’m gassing up the snowblower for the next storm.

P.S. I shot this short video (on my phone) driving around the neighborhood Sunday night after going to dinner with some friends. Please forgive the out-of-tune singalong, LOL. It’s my first attempt at putting a YouTube video on my blog. And it’s pretty obvious I’m better with a still camera. As you can see getting around isn’t easy.

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays — all fun, no guilt, and an opportunity to dress up and act completely silly. As a youth, I enjoyed trick-or-treating, but am now on the other side of that particular age barrier so my thrills have changed a smidgen. Now I give out candy, but try to make trick-or-treat a real experience for the kids that stop by. And fun for me too.

Historically, I’ve put up decorations, jack-o-lanterns, spiderwebs, and a ghoulish face on the door that’s theoretically glow-in-the dark, but only briefly. I line the steps with torches in a can that are kind of like giant candles with four-inch flames. And I dress up all in black with a long, black cape and put on a scary mask, so that when I fling open the door, kids can be appropriately terrified. Inside the house, I’ve typically played Bach’s “Tocata and Fugue” at full blast, and my vestibule is lit by candle light coming from a skull candle holder. The whole scene is satisfyingly creepy and the kids usually enjoy it.

But this year I decided to click it up a notch. Over the past winter while organizing my CDs, I discovered that I had a CD entitled “Haunted Horror Sounds.” This CD has about an hour’s worth of howling winds, screaming people, monstrous voices, wicked laughter, thunder, rain, rattling chains, ghoulish moaning, howling wolves, and creepy organ music mixed into one terrifying soundtrack. Since my historic practice of playing the stereo inside didn’t really make much sound outside, and by Halloween it’s too cold in Boston to leave the windows open, I figured I needed to get the sound onto the porch. What to do? My stereo speakers weigh about 80 pounds each, and given that it might rain, I wasn’t too eager to put them outside anyway. But I realized I had a subwoofer/satellite system connected to my computer that would serve nicely. So I put that out on the porch, attached it to the last working Discman in the western hemisphere, and the creepy sounds could now be heard from across the street, and the porch virtually shook when I cranked it up.

This Compact Disc Should Not Be Listened to Alone

But I also wanted more sound, something surprising, unpredictable and scary. Then I hit on a plan. I’d hide my boombox in the shrubbery next to the front walk, and I’d connect it to a microphone inside the house. When trick-or-treaters walked by or up the steps, I’d snarl, growl, howl, or scream into the microphone. It was perfect. The boombox being black would become completely invisible in the dark, and then anyone could believe that there were monsters lurking in my bushes. Or at least a large and vicious dog.

As night fell, I lit the candles, illuminated the jack-o-lanterns, dressed in my costume, and started the music. I dropped the venetian blinds and turned a few blades so I could see the sidewalk and front walk. Then I waited. Soon enough, kids started to appear.

Casa de los Fantasmas del Gringo Suelto

My house is kind of high up off the street, so there are a goodly number of stairs. You first have to climb 2 steps, and then walk a short walk until you get to the main stairway. Once you’ve climbed the two steps, you’re about 3 feet onto the property, but still a good 8 feet from the house. And that was where you got snarled or growled at. The reaction was very funny. Some kids jumped and then fled when they heard the sound. Others jumped, and then ran up the steps. Others kind of hung out a bit to see what else might happen. When the kids got to the top of the steps and rang the bell, I’d dramatically fling open the door and say in a ghoulish voice with an eastern European accent, “You rang?” Most of the kids were delighted, with many saying it was the coolest house in the neighborhood. Others were flatly terrified. A lot of them just kind of stood there, in a sort of stunned silence. Most forgot to say “Trick or treat,” and had to be reminded. And if they were small and terrified, I’d take off my mask and tell them that it was all in good fun. But mostly it was very well received. At least after the intial shock wore off.

As for me? I’m totally hoarse from having spent Halloween eve growling, snarling, howling, and screaming into a microphone. But it was all worth it, though I think I’ve set a high bar. God only knows what I’ll do next year.